


oh, look at those eyes

by ohvictor



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 04:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4990885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohvictor/pseuds/ohvictor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander doesn't see colors as bright until he steps onto the platform to refute Samuel Seabury's Congressional commentary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, look at those eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nofluxgiven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nofluxgiven/gifts).



> #26 on [this list of soulmate aus](http://thegeminisage.tumblr.com/post/94680598838): "famous characters speaking to or performing for a crowd and suddenly their world is in color/their clock times out/etc and every member of the audience pretends to be this celebrity’s soulmate and a cinderella type situation ensues with the finding", with a bit of tweaking to suit my tastes. i asked [cillian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nofluxgiven) for a ship and a number and this ensued. enjoy!! (also i can't believe i wrote a het fic @ myself why)

The wind nips his ears red and the absolute _fuckface_ up on the platform burns his cheeks red with anger, hot and flushed to his roots even in the cold October air, and if he looked in the mirror it would all be the same dull shade to his eyes. Alexander hasn’t thought about the soulmate that is out there for him somewhere since he was a kid. He puts vibrance into his world by himself; he has to. Right now, the dull colors are the last thing in his mind, thoughts instead bent on churning out the cleverest retorts he has.

His friends’ laughter urges him up onto the stand, where Seabury looks so offended at the interruption that it spurs Alexander forward, taking long strides to stand beside the bishop and address the audience. As they jostle for the crowd’s attention, Alexander barely notices the way the colors before his eyes brighten, hues blossoming and distinguishing themselves. Red and red becomes red and pink; the red of Seabury’s cheeks darkens to a thick, ugly purple, and Alexander realizes suddenly that it’s not just his words that are making Seabury’s ears and neck swell red.

Alexander hasn’t thought about the soulmate that is out there for him somewhere since he was a kid. Where he’s from, no one had bright colors, and it wasn’t like he needed a soulmate to learn to read, to keep accounts. Staring death in the face looks like dried brown blood and yellow bile, like dark rooms and darker eyes, but his world has gotten brighter every day since finally dropping anchor in New York City, and that’s enough.

And yet suddenly he sees more than he has ever seen before. _My soulmate is in this crowd_. Of all the times it comes mid-debate, his first shouting match in the public eye (well--that isn’t technically true, but he likes to think of each one as a new opportunity), and there’s a second where he stammers mid-sentence thinking, what if it’s Seabury? What if his soulmate is _Samuel Seabury_ \-- But the colors didn’t appear until he looked out at the crowd.

An entire crowd of New York’s most intellectual, most curious, and most bored. This should be fun.

With Alexander distracted and Seabury intimidated, the argument fizzles, and Alexander jumps back off the platform on wobbly legs. His friends slap him on the back, Lafayette already engaged in unflattering mimicry of Seabury’s expressions (and it takes effort not to stare at the red of Laurens’ lips for more than a second) but Alexander is on his tiptoes scanning the crowd--does anyone look confused? Is anyone else seeing the colors just now for the first time?

He breaks away from his friends, throwing an excuse over his shoulder, as he hurries into the mass of departing New Yorkers. He pushes past dozens of strangers, searching for any kind of reaction, anyone looking twice, trying not to be distracted himself by the way everything is so different, so much brighter. He wants to stop and stare at everyone he passes--did freckles always look like that? Did wind-bitten ears always burn so bright? He can tell the wealthier visitors by the colors of their coats, bright with rich dyes, even starker now against the gray wool coats and pants of the poor folks and students.

But no one is acting weird, and no one stops, and finally nearly everyone has left, and Alexander is out of breath at the edge of the public square, and he leans against the fence to gather his bearings. For a few minutes, he’d thought, maybe-- But he doesn’t need a soulmate anyway, he tells himself. He can find himself a wife--and any other lover he wants--just fine on his own, without the help of fate.

And then he casts a glance down the fence he’s leaning on, and there’s a woman kneeling by a crack in the stone, where a little tuft of grass is withstanding the imminent winter. Alexander watches, curiosity piqued, as she bends down further to peer at the grass, reaches out to hold it still and stare at it. Its green color is a tiny shock next to the ground, gray stone and gray dirt. Brown, maybe? Alexander will need to brush up on his colors-- He can’t see the woman’s face, but he can see the pink of her cheeks, the brown hair, the bright peacock blue of her cloak.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, hovering several feet from her, and she startles, releasing the blade of grass.

“You’re the revolutionary from earlier,” she says, and Alexander flushes, unable to read her tone.

“I think you had a lot of good things to say.” She turns towards him, and her gaze catches on the red of his cheeks, and in the middle of forming a flirtatious reply, Alexander sees the way her eyes brighten.

“Can you see the colors?” he blurts out, and her eyes widen.

“Just now, when you and Seabury were--”

“When I--”

They both stop and stare at each other, cheeks flushing deeper, eyes bright.

“My name is Elizabeth Schuyler,” Eliza says.

“Alexander Hamilton,” says Alexander, and then, because he’s nothing if not gutsy, “If it takes embarrassing myself in front of New York’s best and brightest for us to meet, it will have been worth it.”


End file.
